


The Eames Sessions

by LaMaldita



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Art School, Artists, F/M, Modeling, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-19 02:00:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1451239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaMaldita/pseuds/LaMaldita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the usual model for her Life Drawing class is out sick, Ariadne finds herself faced with a new, very gorgeous, very English model who seems hell-bent on making her squirm. Set before the events of Inception. (Ariadne/Eames)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New Objectivity Movement

**Author's Note:**

> Guys I got bored and wrote a thing. I pretty much run on tea and reviews so if you like what you see, please take the time to write me something! Merci~

_Late late late late_ , chimed Ariadne’s inner voice as the sound of her Chucks squealing on the linoleum announced her arrival to all in B Wing. Life drawing only happened once a week and she did _not_ want to miss it a second time. This was just so typical—not even a month into the semester and she was already oversleeping. She burst into the studio just as Professor Fournier was explaining that they’d have a new model today. Ariadne’s face burned as she adjusted her desk and clamped a sheet of paper down, pretending to be utterly fascinated by her little pack of broken conte sticks.

“As I was saying,” Fournier’s voice held a touch of exasperation. “Due to Josephine’s illness, we have a new model today. Mr. Eames, when you’re ready.”

Ariadne was too busy rummaging to notice the tall, robed man striding out of the storage room.

“We will be starting with two one-minute poses, then moving to a five, a ten, and finally a thirty minute pose.” Fournier’s voice droned. Ariadne kept nodding as if paying attention until her eyes locked on the figure standing on the central platform. His broad back was turned but she felt her throat tighten as he let the worn robe slide off his shoulders so slowly that it should have been illegal. It didn’t matter the angle, the sexual confidence rolling off him was volcanic. The room seemed to heat up in a matter of heartbeats, and Ariadne unzipped the massive hoodie that shrouded her body, trying to be as quiet as possible.

Eames rolled his head to loosen up and kicked the robe nonchalantly off the platform before settling in to a relaxed standing pose, one leg slightly bent, muscular arms akimbo. The skin behind Ariadne’s ears felt like it was going to burn right off. She’d done life drawing all through high school, drawn hundreds of nudes, male, female, old, young, and attractive, but none had ever affected her like this. She swallowed and tried to chalk it up to her anxiety over being late, heightened stress horomones or whatever.

“Ten seconds,” said Fournier, and she felt a flush of panic as she realized that she’d only drawn the outer curvature of his leg. She sped through the rest, marring the page with messy gesture lines and the smudges of her rushing hand until the figure was barely recognizable as human. She slid a new piece of paper on top to hide it and waited for the start command. She focused on her breathing, willing the burning air to cool as she pulled it into her body and squirming as she felt sweat begin to bead at her sides.

Eames changed position, picking up a broom handle from the nearby prop box and hefting it above his head like a javelin. He turned his feet and shifted his weight onto his back leg and Ariadne watched his thighs flex, trying not to let her gaze naturally rise to the curve of his butt. He held that difficult pose without so much as a twitch. He was beautiful from behind; every line of his body taut and sound but fluid—like Expressionist architecture. This time, she started from the top down, rendering the corded muscle of his forearm with a few angular strokes before moving to the curve of his shoulder and the dramatic slant of his side.

“Five seconds,”

Ariadne bypassed the butt and let her hand trace the high curves of his thigh and calf before quickly scribbling the broad spread of his supporting foot as the clock hit zero.

After an hour and a half, Ariadne was beginning to get sick of drawing Eames’s back and hurriedly scribbling his backside like an embarrassed schoolgirl. She sat in her desk as Fournier made the rounds, nodding and giving comments in his quiet, flat voice. He came to Ariadne’s sketches and lifted his Prada glasses to peer at them for a long while before making a noise in his throat that could have denoted either approval or indifference. She felt her neck tense in frustration. Ariadne liked life drawing, but she got bored quickly, and needed to change it up. As Fournier announced the final, thirty-minute pose and she had finally gathered enough courage to request a seat change, Eames turned around and faced her square on. He can’t have done it intentionally, since the platform was right across from Ariadne’s spot, but she felt her entire body go hot as molten glass anyway.

If Eames from the back had her quaking like a goddamn baby deer, Eames from the front made her want to sprint for the door. A five-o’clock shadow graced his square jaw and framed the kind of lips that she didn’t even know existed outside of those erotica novels—the _really_ filthy ones she used to steal from the topmost shelf at her mom's place and devour in an afternoon. But Eames was no smooth-chested, brooding romance novel hero; even from a distance she could see smile lines mapping his face, and there was a rakish unkemptness about him despite his slicked-down, meticulously parted hair. His heavy pectorals were dusted with blonde hair and inked on his right shoulder was something that looked like a shield—an old tattoo, gone fuzzy at the edges. She had always loved how tattoos degenerated, the ink fanning into the skin, comfortable as an old friend.

Eames settled into a seated position with his chin on his fist and his other hand draped over on the pommel of a plastic sword, dwarfing it. Despite his neutral expression, he looked like a troubled gladiator, slumped as if he had just exited the ring. And as if this pose wasn’t difficult enough anatomically, at the last minute he shifted his leg and gave Ariadne full view of his cock.

“Begin.”  

She felt a noise rising like a bubble in her chest and pretended to yawn in a desperate attempt to stifle it. Thirty minutes. _I can do this,_ she thought, and began to draw.

The studio was silent save for the soft sound of conte on paper and the occasional stifled cough. Ariadne became painfully conscious of how loud her breathing was. She never looked at her entire drawing, only focused on it piece by piece—an arm, his jawline, the drape of his big hand over the sword. Her concentration began to push her discomfort aside—maybe she _could_ do this. In a moment of confidence she glanced up and all semblance of ease went out the window as her gaze locked with Eames’s. He was staring at her. Not at the wall behind her but right at her, the line of his beautiful brow serious as her hand stilled. She saw something like curiosity cross his face before she looked quickly back down at her work, crumpling herself in an attempt to hide behind the desk. She took a moment to collect what thoughts she had left, then, slowly, began to draw his eyes. She didn’t have to look back up; she knew exactly what they looked like. She might never forget.

She didn’t even notice when Fournier said “Time’s up,” and kept drawing until she looked up to find her subject had vanished. She looked around, eyes sore from gazing so long at the white paper and nearly rocketed out of her chair when she realized that Eames was standing next to her—actually, right in her personal space, though thankfully he was now clothed in dark jeans and a brown collared shirt right out of the 70’s. He was staring at her drawing. The sound of his even breathing was like a train coming right at her, and she was tied to the tracks. She wanted so badly to grab her papers and flee, but some vicious curiosity kept her locked in place.

“You’ve an interesting style,” he said. She didn’t know what she had expected him to sound like, but it wasn’t like _that._ His voice had bad news written all over it in big, red stencil letters; that sonorous London drawl with the slight smoker’s rasp had her clenching her legs together all over again.

“Angular,” he continued, “You’re an architect.” He spoke the name of her profession like an innuendo, drawing out the A like a moan and savoring the T’s. How did he know? Ariadne drew a breath to speak, but what could she say after that? Eames lifted each piece carefully by the corners and studied it, nodding, until he came to the first, the one-minute pose. The smudges caused by her hurrying hand had given the drawing a dark, sinister cast, obscuring half of his body in grey shadows.

“Now this, is very interesting. Dark. Almost has a touch of Goya to it.”

“Y...you know Goya?” She stammered. She hadn’t expected someone so—well, rough-around-the-edges to be well versed in Spanish Romantic painters.

“Please, love, I’m not a total Philistine.” He chuckled. “This one could use some work.” He indicated the thirty-minute pose, the one she was most pleased with.

“What?”

“The figure is too stiff. I’m not a building, you know. And your proportions are off.”

Ariadne felt the anger and embarrassment shudder through her gut. “Nobody asked you,” she ground out, shoving her drawings into her worn portfolio. She felt Eames’s eyes burning the back of her neck all the way back to her apartment.

 -------

Ariadne sat at the slanted desk that seemed to take up half her tiny studio flat, measuring the same lines over and over. The assignment was nothing, should have taken her a couple of hours at most; an elevation map for a two-storey neoclassical library. She’d been up nearly all night working, sometimes just sitting back staring at her protractor as if it were a weapon from an alien planet. Her eyes burned from the poor light of her Himalayan salt lamp—a gift from her new-agey friend Denise—and she rubbed them with the heels of her palms. Every time she pushed the tip of her drafting pencil into the paper she thought of Eames’s comments—how could her proportions be off? She was an architect, goddamnit, proportions were her _thing_ —or worse, the way his broad hands spread on the table, the way his eyes held her gaze all through that last, thirty-minute pose with his legs open and…

"FUCK!” she shrieked, and kicked her wheely chair away from the desk.

She slumped over to the fridge, flung it open with enough force to rattle the near-empty condiment bottles in the door and squatted, considering the lack of nutrition therein before deciding on beer for dinner. It was cheap stuff, some piss a friend had brought over for a movie night like a month ago, and it was flat. At least it was cold. She lay down on the bed and balanced the can on her forehead, sulking. Hopefully Josephine would be over her flu by the end of the week so she wouldn’t have to spend another hour and forty drawing the oh-so-infuriating Mr. Eames.


	2. Brutalism

Eames tossed his car keys towards the bowl by the door, missing by a long shot. Despite being the type who considered jogging 10k a light warm up, modeling always left him exhausted. He shuffled to the bathroom and ran the shower, holding a hand under the water til the old pipes warmed up. It took a while, but it was a hell of a lot quicker than what he had been used to in Mombasa. That and the mosquitoes were the only things he didn’t miss about Africa.

Paris’s respectable history and the refined quality of its humanity didn’t really suit Eames, in fact, neither did being a live model, but he enjoyed it nonetheless. There was something electric about being in the hushed room with twenty-odd pairs of eyes on you; it forced a deep state of concentration that he had come to crave. Plus the undeniable sexual tension was kind of a rush. He was used to the collective pounding pulses of middle-aged French women in the weekend classes and the nervous swallowing of first year art students, but never had bothered to connect with any of them despite some looking like all they wanted to do was go home and wank til their vision went white.

But this girl, the little architect, with her huge, dark, animal eyes and those perfect Clara Bow lips that he wouldn't at all mind seeing wrapped around his cock. He wasn’t normally one to notice girls that young, but something in the way she moved, like a little hurt robin, made his palms itch to touch her.

He ran the soap over his chest, massaging the tense muscle where his neck and shoulder met and cleaning behind each ear like he was raised to do. Despite all the dirty, unsavory things Eames loved to throw himself into; from eating nyama choma at a street cart in Mombasa to fixing junkyard cars to stealing watches in London’s smoggy financial district, he always looked forward to a scalding shower at the end of each day.

The architect’s face hovered in his mind as he slid the soap lower before setting it aside to grasp his now hard length. Steam filled his lungs and he let his head fall back as he stroked himself, imagined the architect undressing, her small, skilled fingers making quick work of buttons and zips, baring that creamy skin for him. Breasts white as magnolias and so, so soft. Women like that always tasted clean, worked so hard to keep it so. They reminded him of soda crackers. Comforting. Tasteless. One needed to dirty them up a little, get them after work or in a hot room and tease out the human flavours: a tang of embarrassment or sharp, salty lust; the rich, heavy taste of physical exhaustion. How would she taste, in the secret place behind her knees, at her skinny wrists?

Eames dug his toes into the bottom of the tub, his tongue tingling at the suggestion of her skin. He stroked himself faster, thinking of what curves might be hidden under her baggy sweater, her body warm and pliable beneath his hands. He came clumsily, and sighed, reaching for the soap again. Just wanking wasn’t going to do it. He had to see how far he could push, how crazy he could make her, before the architect tumbled like a cabin made of toothpicks.


	3. Structural Expressionism

“Class, I am sorry to say that Josephine’s illness seems to be more serious than we thought. She is unable to join us today, but Mr. Eames was kind enough to come again at short notice—Mr. Eames, please.”

Ariadne glowered as Eames practically prowled out of the storage room, throwing her a sidelong glance and a quirk of those cherubic lips before stepping onto the platform and shucking his robe again. He went straight for the broom handle this time, holding it like a batter ready to hit a home run. His front leg obscured his groin and Ariadne felt relief soften her face as she began to draw.

They drew four one-minute poses this time and with each new pose Ariadne began to get the feeling, like a cinderblock in her belly, that Eames might be teasing her. He kept his back more or less turned, only ever giving her the profile of his face but fixing her with a challenging sidelong gaze each time. As they moved into the five and ten-minute segments his poses became more and more suggestive; hands sliding up to clasp his throat, head thrown back as if in ecstasy, pelvis pushed forward.

Ariadne chewed marks into the inside of her cheek as she fought down the phantom catch of calloused hands on her skin. He moved from pose to pose with a snake’s languor, allowing each muscle sweet time to extend, seldom breaking her gaze—like he was doing the goddamn dance of seven veils for her. Despite her valiant efforts to keep it together, every so often something he’d do—a tightening of his jaw as he held a difficult pose, his forearm flexing as he grasped a prop—would make her hand shake and a little shiver would appear in the lines of her sketch.

“Next position,” said Fournier. “Thirty minutes, et…maintenant.”

This time Eames turned to face her and went into a reclining position, bending one knee and draping an arm over it. Ariadne felt the blood drain from her face and go screaming southward as she realized that Eames was sporting a spectacular erection. She slammed her thighs together and stared at the paper, willing the throbbing in her ears to stop. Ariadne wasn’t a virgin by any means; growing up in small-town Michigan where there wasn’t anything to do but read and fuck had taken care of that, but she’d always gone for the quiet, boyish type. A little awkward, like her. Safe. Eames was the antithesis of “safe”. Everything about him reeked of mean cities and witching hours and rampant goddamn testosterone, from the tattoos to the scars on his knees to those dark grey eyes and the laugh lines around them. She couldn’t bring herself to look up but she _knew_ he was watching her, calculating, waiting to see how she’d react.

Ariadne rolled her neck and shoulders and let a sharp breath out through her nose. She felt like a fighter about to step into the ring, feeling the tension hum like a bowstring. She snapped her eyes up and met his, watched him part his lips ever so slightly to draw a breath, and realized; he wasn’t in it to embarrass her. He was getting off on this. On her. Defiant, she put conte to paper and began to draw.

After class she tried to pack up as quickly as possible to avoid another encounter but Eames was already striding over to her desk, bare feet padding on the concrete floor. He was surprisingly quiet for such a big man.

“Good class?” he said, grinning.

That fucking tar-and-honey voice. Ariadne shrugged, trying not to glance at where the bathrobe fell open, exposing his chest and stomach. She could almost see where a faint trail of hair drew a streak from his navel down to...

A huge hand steadied the swivel chair and he leaned in close. He smelled incredible; a complex haze of tobacco, sweat, faint cologne, and something spicy that made her head reel.

“Let’s have a butcher’s, don’t be shy.”

She realized she had been hovering over her drawings in an attempt to shield them, and slumped back, trying her best to appear nonchalant. Eames considered them for several moments, running his knuckle over his lower lip.

“Something’s off.” He said.

Ariadne blinked at him. This again?

“Here,” he tapped a finger on the paper, just above where she’d drawn his draped arm.

He said something else but her mind had zeroed in on his fingers and imagining them drifting across her hips and thighs, his rough thumb pressing against her clit— He finished his sentence and looked at her expectantly. She opened her mouth but, predictably, she couldn’t think of anything snappy to say to hide the fact she hadn’t been listening.

“Move over,” he said, bumping her chair with his hip.The connection of his body—even clothed—with her arm made her flinch like he’d given her a static shock. He picked up a piece of conte and, frowning in concentration, fixed the arm problem with a few quick strokes.

“Wh-“

“Do I surprise you, luv?” he smiled knowingly.

Ariadne felt the back of her neck sting with annoyance.

“Do you draw all over everybody’s work?” she spat, moving to gather her papers.

He regarded her with a kind of serious curiosity, as if she were a piece of art that he didn’t quite understand. “Just yours.” he said, and slinging his clothes over one shoulder, strode from the room.

 

* * *

 

Eames jammed his teeth into his lower lip as he left the building, hoping the pain would stop his legs wobbling long enough to get to the car. Thank god he had parked out back, somewhere secluded—there was no waiting for this. He fumbled with his fly and took hold of his shaft—so hard it felt like rebar—hands quivering as he forced himself to go slow.

Just thinking about how the little architect looked in class as she rendered his nakedness, her hair unkempt, her little freckled nose scrunching with concentration, was more erotic than anything he’d seen in a strip club. And Jesus, the way she’d stared at him with those huge dark eyes when he laid himself in front of her, the same look an impala gives you before it breaks its frozen stance and sprints into the bush but with her there is always something sharp and hungry lurking behind her gaze and oh, fuck. He stroked himself faster, his breath coming in short, animal puffs as he pictured diving between her milky thighs. How easily he could rip her out of those baggy layers, hoist her against the wall and devour her, delving into her with his tongue until her voice was hoarse from screaming.

He felt the hot coil of his orgasm building in the pit of his stomach and licked his palm desperately, thrusting into the slickness of his hand, wishing it was her sweet mouth instead. He came with a frustrated growl and glanced at himself in the rearview mirror. He _looked_ like he’d had the ride of his life—lips flushed and parted, eyes glassy—but sure as hell didn’t feel it. How had the thought of a girl he had never even touched made him come like a fucking schoolboy?

 

* * *

 

It went on like this for the next two weeks, until after a torturous class in which Eames insisted upon facing Ariadne for the entire 97 minutes, forcing her to render his full-frontal nudity six times, that she decided to confront him in the hallway. She slammed a hand down on his shoulder and suddenly felt tiny touching him. His muscles moved under the smooth fabric of his awful paisley shirt as he turned to face her with an amused smile. He waited patiently while she fought to speak.

“Okay Eames,” she squeaked, not intending for her voice to sound so high. “I’ve, uh, been thinking about what you said, about my drawings, and I wanted…” Ariadne trailed off, realizing that she was still touching him, and snatched her hand back. Oh god, now where was she going to put it. Her pocket? No. Hip? Too forced. She ended up letting it dangle hopelessly at her side.

“You wanted?” His voice like the purr of a vintage muscle car.

Don’t think about him driving a muscle car. Don’t think about how totally hot that would be. Too late.

“I wanna know if you offer—you know—private sessions. For practice. Drawing practice.”

He leaned back and regarded her, and she felt like she might start fucking dry heaving from embarrassment until he reached into his slacks pocket and in one smooth motion drew out a worn leather sleeve of business cards and handed her one. Despite his garish taste in shirts, his cards were sleek and professional, reading EAMES in a stylish font on one side, with his phone number and the word ‘consultant’ on the other.

“679-2293,” she read. “What are you a consultant for?”

But Eames was already striding away, leaving her standing in the middle of the hallway, staring at the card in her hands.


	4. Chapter 4: Deconstructivism

The business card rested on the coffee table with an air of ominousness that could give a gallows a run for its money. This was ridiculous. Why didn't he just have an email like everyone else? Why did she have to call and hear that stupid, deep, molasses-y voice in her ear? It had been three days since their encounter in the hallway and in that time she had picked up the phone at least twenty times only to chicken out and slam it down again.

“Okay. Here goes.” she huffed, punching in the digits with shaking fingers. It rang seven times and she had almost lost her nerve when it connected.

“Eames,”

That one syllable made her mouth go completely dry. Her jaw felt like it had been rusted shut and she fought to speak.

“Hello?” he asked.

“Hi,” she creaked.

“Darling!” he said brightly. “What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering if you could come over. For life drawing. Tonight.” Shitshitshitshit, she hadn’t meant to say that last part out loud.

“Hmmm,” he rumbled, and her stomach throbbed. “Well, it’s rather short notice, but I suppose I could. Six p.m.?”

“Yeah okay great bye!” she rushed, desperate to get off the phone with him, and hung up. About two seconds later it rang again and she gave herself a moment to wildly punch the air in terror before picking up.

“I can’t come over if I don’t know your address, love.”

Oh god, I’m such a piece of shit, how did even I make it to 25, Jesus.

“Oh. Right. It’s 334 Rue Saint-Marie.”

“Rue Saint-Marie. It’s a date. Cheers.”

This time, he hung up, and she listened to the dial tone for a while before putting the phone down on the table. She had four hours to psych herself up for Eames’s visit, so she busied herself by making her apartment tidier than it had ever been, stuffing embarrassing knickknacks into drawers and dragging her furniture around to form an impromptu studio space. Trying to hide the prairie girl that lay everywhere in the form of crochet blankets and ceramic animals.

She was applying lipstick and wiping it off over and over when the knock came at the door. How had the time passed that quickly? Even though she had wiped the lipstick off again, her lips were stained red from the repeated application. It slowly dawned on her what a mess she looked: she had thrown her hair up in a high, unkempt ponytail and her denim around-the-house shirt had a wine stain on the left boob. But he was at the door. Too late for last-minute wardrobe adjustments now. She steeled herself, put on a smile and yanked open the door with enough force to create a small gust of wind. Eames smirked.

“Evening.”

“Hi.”

“Now, before I come in, luv, I must ask your name. I can’t just step into the home of a stranger, can I?”

God, the way those lips formed words had to be forbidden somewhere in the Bible.

“Ariadne,” she managed.

“Ariadne,” he purred. He seemed surprised, even delighted, by her archaic name. “The lady of the labyrinth. What a beautiful name.”

Nobody ever knew the origin of her name—so many in her tiny Midwestern hometown had chalked it up to her weird hippie parents and made fun of it or said, in polite jest, that it was “a real mouthful”. Few people had ever said it was beautiful. Pleased, Ariadne gave a tiny smile.

“Thanks. Come in?” He stepped past her into her cramped apartment.

“Cozy,” He declared, positioning himself in the centre of the room, “Shall we begin?”

She nodded and skittered between the furniture to her desk, rolling out a fresh piece of paper. She was ready far faster than he was, but instead of staring at the blankness of her paper as he settled in like she would have in class, she found herself watching him undress from behind. He rolled his head and shook his arms out, like he did before every session, then began to unbutton his shirt.

The room was strangely silent, or maybe it just seemed so in the small space. His hands moved to his belt and he slid his slacks down before tossing them, and his socks, on her loveseat. His heavy gold watch and rings he set carefully on the coffee table. He then turned to face her, cocked an eyebrow, and hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his boxer briefs.

Ariadne met his gaze and clamped her tongue between her teeth as he slid them down to the floor. She forced herself to watch his face and not his groin as he settled into the first position, a standing pose with his left hand clasping the opposite shoulder. There was something strangely vulnerable in the downward tilt of his chin, the grip of his hands on his own skin. She glanced at the digital timer she had clipped to her desk, adjusted the conte between her fingers, and began to draw.

* * *

 

 A bead of sweat raced past Ariadne’s ear to her jaw. As the sun sank lower in the sky it glared directly through the window behind her, washing the room in gold and turning the room into a sauna. Eames was sweating too; the hard lines of his torso shimmered with a thin sheen of moisture. He took deep breaths, which every so often loosed a droplet so it rolled down his side, or his calf, or worse, right down the sloped cut of his hip towards the dark thatch of hair at his groin. Ariadne could smell him from her desk—he reeked of salt and smoke and more than a few times she had to keep from salivating at the idea of tasting him. When it came time to change position, she asked if he wanted a window open. A teasing smile tugged at his lips.

“That’s hardly fair, darling. You’re nice and warm in your clothes, you’d leave me to shiver away in my sweet nothings?"

“Then…no window?”

Eames said nothing, continuing to smirk at her like he knew something she didn’t. Ariadne ignored this and continued drawing, smudging the shadow under his collarbone with one deft motion of her pinky. He kept his mouth mercifully shut as she knit her brows and summoned up the courage to shade in his pubic hair, commit to the lines of his heavy cock before quickly moving on to fixing a weird curve on his upper thigh.

The timer’s beep cut the hot silence of the room and she shoved herself back from the desk. “I need some water,” she announced. “You want some?”

He sighed gratefully and trailed after her into the kitchen. She envied how confident he was in his nudity as he leaned against the small island and took a deep pull from the chipped mug she handed him. 

“Cheers, love.”

There was a moment of silence as they both gulped down the water. Ariadne licked her lips. 

“Hey,” she said shyly, “I forgot to ask on the phone, how much do I owe you?”

He turned to her and leveled those grey eyes on her face. Like the colour of the North Sea, or what she imagined London fog to look like. Whatever that was.

“For you, darling, I won’t charge,” She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. “However, I will make a request. That you let me draw you.” 

Ariadne blinked. “Me? You want to draw me?” 

“I do.” 

Her mind filled with questions. Why? And would she have to undress, to sit there motionless with his eyes burning over her naked body? Oh god, was she wearing gross underwear? 

Eames’s voice cut through her anxious monologue. “Cat got your tongue?”

She gave a stiff, stricken nod, and moved to the centre of the room. The clutter of her apartment seemed to shrink away, leaving her in a massive, empty space. Alone, save for Eames’s raw, steady presence behind her. She lifted her shirt over her head and immediately wrapped her arms protectively around her torso, as if that would shield her.

“My, I didn’t even have to ask.” he teased, and she bit down hard on her lip to restrain her shame and fury before fumbling her leggings and panties down and kicking them aside. She shuffled around to face him, arms crossed and eyes on the carpet. 

Eames gave a dark chuckle. “Loosen up, love. No fun in drawing such a static pose.” 

He was loving this, making her squirm and shiver under his gaze. She wished she could counter somehow, match his easy languor and make him uncomfortable, but she knew the odds of that were about as good as Frank Lloyd Wright walking through her door. Instead she set her chin in defiance, threw her arms up above her head into a dancer’s arc and lifted her back leg so it rested on tiptoe. 

“Sixty seconds,” She barked, and turned her face towards the window, the warmth of this small triumph rising in her cheeks. 

Eames was silent for a long few seconds, and Ariadne fought the urge to look at his expression, thereby letting him win. He took a breath as if to say something, then she heard the scratch of conte on paper, a long, smooth line that she guessed was her arm or her leg.

She had to admit, this was exhilarating in a super awkward Jesus I’m naked kind of way. Holding even the short poses was more difficult than she had expected, and she felt beads of sweat slipping down her sides as she held focus. Even without meeting his eyes, she knew when he was staring at her—the quivering silence as his hand stilled told her that. She felt now as if she understood why he had come and hovered over her drawings after class; her curiosity grew with each little sound of rustling paper, each short breath puffing conte dust away. Something else was growing in her too, the intense pull to turn her head and look him right in the eyes as he had done to her, the serpentine movement of arousal from her belly to her groin. 

She realized after a moment that it had been quiet for a while, and she flicked her gaze over to the drafting table. 

As their eyes met, Eames stood suddenly, making the chair screech against the hardwood and Ariadne jump. He closed the space between them in three strides, conte held like a weapon between his fingers. Ariadne fought the urge to bolt as he loomed over her, his face lacking the usual cocky mirth, and raised the conte to touch her jaw, just below her ear. The heat from his body could have knocked her over. His eyes bored into hers as he drew it ever so gently over the curve of her chin, tracing her lips before letting it fall from his fingers and replacing it with his mouth. 

Ariadne felt her knees give as a bolt went through her and she sagged against his chest. Eames held her up with one arm, letting his other hand tangle in her hair as he deepened the kiss. She was hazily aware that her arms were dangling at her sides, so she let them roam the muscles of his chest, the sharp rise of his hipbones. His skin burned against hers as he kissed and bit his way down her throat to her breasts and inhaled deeply before flattening his hot tongue against a nipple. 

Ariadne squirmed and arched towards him, letting a small, raspy cry escape her lips. Eames’ mouth did not disappoint. Her fingers found his hair, surprisingly soft when everything else about him was rough-cut and hard, and she pulled him down on top of her, grinding her hips against his arousal. 

“Jesus, Ariadne.” He growled. His arms shook with the effort of restraint as he lowered himself and licked a languid stripe from her navel to the hollow of her throat, placing a kiss on her collarbone. He worked his way back down, kissing each rib, so slowly she was almost in tears by the time he reached her center. He fixed her with a steady gaze as he dug his fingers into her thighs and licked her, slow, savouring the way she arched and cried out under each movement of his tongue. 

Wherever his rough fingers connected with her skin felt like storm static and the contrast of his soft, hot mouth and the stubble rasping at her inner thigh was almost enough to drive her over the edge. He looked up at her with those grey eyes and plunged his tongue inside of her and that was it. She came with a shriek that absolutely mortified her and seemed to delight Eames, who fucking _chuckled_ against her clit _,_ that deep, rich sound flooding her with renewed arousal.

“Eames.” She begged.

He seemed to know what she meant. Grasping her backside, he lifted her like a beanbag and backed her into the wall. She wrapped her legs around his hips and pulled him closer, her nerves screaming for more points of contact, more of his calloused hands catching on her skin, more of his beautiful, devilish mouth on her own. He nipped at her neck as his hot hardness pressed against her entrance, teasing her. He drew the rough pad of his thumb in casual circles on her thigh, though she could feel him shiver every time her nipples brushed his chest. 

At last, she couldn’t stand it and dug her nails into his shoulders, looking him straight in the eye and said, “For fuck’s sake, Eames, DO IT.” 

He gave a cocky smirk, readjusted his grip on her ass and slammed into her with such force her vision went white for a split second. He began to move, slowly at first, pulling out almost all the way before sliding back in again, making absolutely sure she felt every ridge and contour of his cock. Ariadne made a little broken sound and clutched at him, trying to speed the pace, but he had full control of her hips and only licked his lips and smiled when she glared at him through her hair. She retaliated by grabbing a fistful of his hair and jerking his head towards her for a crushing kiss, biting hard on his lower lip. He snarled into her mouth but kept his slow, rhythmic pace, torturing her. She whined his name against his lips, her whole lower body aching with the need for more.

It seemed like he would never let up, that he would just tease her until she had a heart attack or something. She pulled back to look him in the eye, to challenge that stupid, teasing smirk, but found something else; his eyes gone dark as tornado weather, his full lips—flushed and slick from biting—parted to let small gasps and growls of pleasure escape. She’d never seen anything so hot in her entire life.

“How do you want me, Ariadne?” He dragged a calloused finger over her clit as he breathed her name. It was then she realized that he was hers.

Everything. She wanted it all, but had no idea how to articulate her greed.

“I need…more,”

He kissed her again, hard enough that the back of her head knocked against the wall and the flash of pain mixed with the smooth wetness of his mouth confirmed what it was she wanted. 

“Harder.” It came out as more of a hoarse whisper than a purr as she had intended, but the flash of lust in his eyes and his dark laugh made her forget her embarrassment again.

He swung her around, carried her across the room and bent her down onto the slanted drafting table. She felt a momentary thrum of panic in her throat at hours of homework being scattered to the floor but that was quickly replaced by the heat of his cock brushing against her backside. He traced his hand up her back and gently undid her ponytail, wafting his coarse fingers through her hair so it fell loosely about her shoulders. Pressing a kiss into the back of her shoulder he slid in to her once again, one huge hand gently holding her hips in place, the other gripping the edge of the drafting table. 

His thick shaft twitched inside her and Ariadne was pretty sure she was going to die right there if he didn’t start moving again soon. Her whole body felt like high tension wire, straining and fizzing with electricity.

When she saw his knuckles going white she reached back and grabbed his other wrist hard, pulling him closer and deeper. 

“I’m not—ah—going to fucking shatter, Eames.” she ground out. 

She heard his breath hitch and he rumbled in approval before he twisted his hand in her hair and yanked her head back, simultaneously kicking her feet apart. Her scalp prickled with pain and anticipation before he came in hard and hit some place within her that made her eyes roll shut. She swore and drove her hips back, drawing a deep, rough sound from him and all she wanted was for him to make it again. Ariadne rocked back against him faster and he matched her pace, fingers digging an aching constellation into her hip. It was too much, it wasn’t enough, and all she could do was be flung about in the storm of her building orgasm. 

“Please, please don’t stop,” she begged, nails scrabbling uselessly against the table.

“I won’t, darling. Swear to god I won’t.”

She couldn’t see him but the sounds he made, his huge presence so close to her was electric. His thrusts grew erratic, more desperate as he reached his breaking point, a river of muttered curses and prayers and moans and in between it all her name like she’s never heard it said before. 

“Fucking _hell,_ ” he growled as he came, his hot breath shuddering against her back. Three more desperate thrusts and she unraveled beneath him, her climax thundering down her body like a rogue wave. 

Eames collapsed against her back with a noisy sigh. Ariadne relished in his solid weight and the way his whole body covered her before squirming out from under him to lie on the floor. 

He crawled towards her, eyes heavy and laughter all around his lips. She let a hand trace lazily up the hard muscle of this thigh, drawing lines through the veil of sweat coating his skin. 

He planted a kiss on the corner of her mouth before sitting up on his heels and gazing at where the conte had left dark, bruisey smudges on her breasts, ribs and forearms. 

“Now that,” he teased, “is a work of art.” 

Ariadne hoisted her head off the carpet with great effort and glared, aiming a kick at his side. He caught her flailing foot and laughed, and the genuine warmth of the sound made her smile in spite of herself. Eames pulled her up by her arms and tucked her head under his chin. The tenderness of the gesture made something tug in her chest, like a ball of yarn unspooling.

Ariadne reached over to where the drawings had scattered on the floor, picking a few up carefully. Eames’ drawings were raw, gestural and beautiful, with no care to where the side of his hand smudged the lines or if the hair even looked like hair. All focus was on the face, almost luminous in the riot of shadows and smudges.

Ariadne had to remember to breathe when he realized that this was how he saw her—tiny and dark and intense, her brow focused, her mouth full and lush. 

“Your drawings are good,” she said, flipping back and forth.

“Well, thank you.”

“But,” she fixed him with what she hoped was a stern look, “your linework is all over the place. You need more practice.”

“Do I.”

“Same time next week?”

And Eames grinned. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bloo bloo bloo took forever to finish this because I'm trash on legs and sex is easy to have and hard to write.
> 
> Please take the time to review if you can, it helps me so much in writing better future fics. Cheers all for reading <3


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